No, I don't mean a ghost tour in some of our larger cities, although they are fun. If you get a chance to go on one this summer, they offer an evening's entertainment.
I mean a cemetery walk in your community, where descendants share their story with you, the public. Many historical societies have become involved in these living tours, sharing a bit of local history with its citizens.
Last January I was asked to write a few scripts for our town's upcoming cemetery walk. The nine people selected as honored guests for the tour were all veterans. The walk was scheduled for Armed Forces Weekend, May 20th.
Our team of writers dug through old obits, talked to descendants of the ones to be honored and did some general research of the times and war they had been a part of. I soon became intrigued with the three stories I was in charge of writing. One man, Caleb, was a veteran of the War of 1812. None of his descendants had known him of course, actually it was the other way around, his family found him through a geneology search and discovered him in the local cemetery in the old part no longer used. His stone was in great shape and his story gradually came to life. He moved from New York to Illinois, bringing his family with him when he was 57 years old. As a vet he was granted 160 acres of bounty land and finally took it 47 years after the war. Why he waited so long no one knows.
Another man in character as his father during World War II, talked of his pilot days in Europe. He'd flown twenty-two missions. An unexpected storm and battle fatigue of one of his fellow pilots caused a fatal accident taking his life and the crews of seven other bombers. It took my breath away to watch this man portray his father, a father he doesn't remember except through the stories told by his family.
Our only woman honored was portrayed by her sister. Minnie was a army nurse on a naval ship during the same war. She and several others were confronted with a drunken sailor while aboard ship. His thrashing about knocked her so hard against the floor that she suffered epileptic seizures the rest of her life. Her military career was over, but she continued with her nursing until a seizure took her life at the age of forty-five.
And then there's the scotsman, James Hamil, who our local VFW post is named after. He came to America, became a citizen and went to fight for his new country during WWI. James was the first soldier killed from my small town. The pictures of his flag draped coffin and horse drawn caisson with military escort to the cemetery lend solemn dignity to his life. He represented so many other immigrants who found a home in rural Illinois. Many just like him had been seeking a new life and new freedoms. All understood the price he paid to keep that freedom.
I could tell you about Fred who fought in Cuba during the Spanish American War and his part in Teddy Roosevelt's ride up San Juan Hill. Or I could mention Don and his miserable stay in the cold winter of Korea during that conflict. And the story of Robert aboard the USS Caldwell for three long years. But what I'm hoping you will garner from this article is this - others came before you and me, they built strong communities, defended our country and handed us something to be proud of. Maybe you live in a sleepy little town like I do, maybe you live in a thriving metropolis, it doesn't matter. It's our turn to take care of our communities, our turn to honor our country and our time to stand strong for what is right.
Who knows, some day, decades from now, your historical society may decide to do a cemetery walk about our generation, our time on duty so to speak. We don't need to have a military background to have served our community or our country. What we need is initiative to change things for the better, even if we're old like Caleb was. And the best place to make a difference is at home, the place that matters most.
Til next time ~
DL Larson
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Writers are Gamblers
I was over at Lake of the Torches Casino again yesterday playing the slot machines. It's a form of entertainment where I get totally engrossed in a machine and forget everything else except whether or not I achieve what I'm aiming for. The games offer rewards, large and small, along the way, but what players are really aiming for are what are called "screens" or "bonuses" which provide free spins or jackpots.
So, a person can play, get good or even great hits, yet not get a screen or bonus. Some people are satisfied and stop at that point. The true players play on until they get a screen or a bonus. One is not enough. The more the better.
I'm one of those stubborn players and refuse to give up no matter how much I'm losing. That can be bad. Sometimes the money disappears and I have nothing to show for it. It can also be good. Sometimes I get what I've been looking for and the rewards are stupendous.
You guessed it - Once again I'm making an analogy to writing. Writers are like players at a casino. We invest time and money learning our craft, doing promotion, going to conferences, buying how-to-books and magazines, etc. Then the book is finished and we get praised by family or friends, maybe critique groups. We win contests or awards. Some of us stop right there and don't submit our manuscripts for publication.
For those in the game to stay, we figure out how and where to submit and do it more than once to achieve the screen or bonus of publication. Once we get that goal it's still not enough. We want it to happen again and again. No only that, we want the screen or bonus to be really big, an experience we'll always remember.
Like gamblers, to achieve that great screen or bonus sometimes we have to make sacrifices that are hard to make. There's no guaranty that even if we put our heart and soul into achieving our dreams that they'll actually come true.
We have to remember - If we don't play, we can't win.
Morgan Mandel
So, a person can play, get good or even great hits, yet not get a screen or bonus. Some people are satisfied and stop at that point. The true players play on until they get a screen or a bonus. One is not enough. The more the better.
I'm one of those stubborn players and refuse to give up no matter how much I'm losing. That can be bad. Sometimes the money disappears and I have nothing to show for it. It can also be good. Sometimes I get what I've been looking for and the rewards are stupendous.
You guessed it - Once again I'm making an analogy to writing. Writers are like players at a casino. We invest time and money learning our craft, doing promotion, going to conferences, buying how-to-books and magazines, etc. Then the book is finished and we get praised by family or friends, maybe critique groups. We win contests or awards. Some of us stop right there and don't submit our manuscripts for publication.
For those in the game to stay, we figure out how and where to submit and do it more than once to achieve the screen or bonus of publication. Once we get that goal it's still not enough. We want it to happen again and again. No only that, we want the screen or bonus to be really big, an experience we'll always remember.
Like gamblers, to achieve that great screen or bonus sometimes we have to make sacrifices that are hard to make. There's no guaranty that even if we put our heart and soul into achieving our dreams that they'll actually come true.
We have to remember - If we don't play, we can't win.
Morgan Mandel
Monday, May 28, 2007
Domain NameTheft
It's Memorial Day, and I'm sitting outside working on the edits for my upcoming book, The Next Adventures of Guy ... more wackiness.
It's a gorgeous day ... though I'm sticking to the shade so glare won't make it impossible to read the screen. Dont'cha love laptops? Anyway, I just posted a blog on Book Place, but I think the message is important enough to 'cross blog.' Especially since one of our own Acme Authors was involved.
Because of writer's conferences and such, I have met hundreds of writers, and gotten to know some of them better over drinks or at author fests. Still, though, there are thousands and thousands of writers in the various genres. So how surprising is it to hear the same story from two of the few that I know a little better? The story?
That of domain-theft.
This isn't really my story, but you have to hear it. One of the writers from the Mystery Writers of America posted a message on our Chat Board that someone had somehow swiped her domain name ... which was simply her name. It wasn't because the thief shared the same name, he wanted it and simply took it. She actually tracked down the jerk, and his explanation was that he 'collects' writer's domain names.
It's a gorgeous day ... though I'm sticking to the shade so glare won't make it impossible to read the screen. Dont'cha love laptops? Anyway, I just posted a blog on Book Place, but I think the message is important enough to 'cross blog.' Especially since one of our own Acme Authors was involved.
Because of writer's conferences and such, I have met hundreds of writers, and gotten to know some of them better over drinks or at author fests. Still, though, there are thousands and thousands of writers in the various genres. So how surprising is it to hear the same story from two of the few that I know a little better? The story?
That of domain-theft.
This isn't really my story, but you have to hear it. One of the writers from the Mystery Writers of America posted a message on our Chat Board that someone had somehow swiped her domain name ... which was simply her name. It wasn't because the thief shared the same name, he wanted it and simply took it. She actually tracked down the jerk, and his explanation was that he 'collects' writer's domain names.
Yeah, you heard me, er, read me. He collects them!
She managed to get it back from him after pleading that her professional success depends on people being able to find her, and this is best done by having a website named after her. It ended up costing her nothing but a period of absolute panic.
Her message prompted a series of alarmed postings, and one more horrible tale:
Another writer told how his had been swiped, too, but when he contacted the perpetrator, he was told he could have it back ... for a price. The person who took it did so simply for monetary purposes. This writer told him to just keep it, and he simply changed his domain name. Hopefully later, the thief will let his illegitimate ownership lapse and the writer can get it back if he wants it.
My domain name is named after me, too, www.normcowie.com, in the hopes that the millions of people (I hope) who hear of me can find me. But every year or so, I get a mailing from a domain-naming company that offers to 'renew' my domain name for me. The first time I received this, I frantically contacted my web page company who assured me that they do this for me as a part of my contract with them.
So the word is, my friend writers, is 'writer beware.' There are people out there who want to make money without working for it. And they don't always do it at gunpoint.
Norm
The Adventures of Guy ... written by a guy (probably)
and coming soon, The Next Adventures of Guy ... more wackiness
Norm
The Adventures of Guy ... written by a guy (probably)
and coming soon, The Next Adventures of Guy ... more wackiness
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Decoration Day -- by Larry D. Sweazy
When I was a kid, my mom and grandparents called Memorial Day Decoration Day. We would load up wreaths and flowers and visit the cemeteries where all of my relatives were buried. It was important. It was a tradition. Our own version of Day of the Dead. Personally, as a kid, I thought it was weird and morbid. The last thing I wanted to do on a 3 day weekend was visit the cemetery. I was going to live forever, right? Graveyards were for old people that I could barely remember or had never met at all. All of the flags and flowers were pretty, but I didn’t figure the dead people could appreciate them, so what was the point?
Funny how middle-age changes things. Death is a certain reality. By the time you’re 50, it’s almost guaranteed you have lost someone you truly love, that you’ve been touched or devastated by a lingering or a sudden death. But…it’s easy to forget that Memorial Day is more than a long weekend meant for relaxing and cooking out. Or maybe not. Who wants to think about death? Who needs to remember the pain? Who needs to stare at the inevitable end of our own life?
As writers…we do. We must. Life is a fragile, precious commodity, and if we don’t feel that way, then how can our characters truly come alive? How can we write about death without facing it ourselves. Especially us mystery writers…but all writers must have a sense of urgency in their work, a foreboding future lurking around the next corner, blood throbbing in the veins. Our work has to have life in it.
My novels and short stories are littered with dead people. My memory as a human being is jam-packed with dead people. This weekend, I will honor them by planting flowers, by participating in a tradition I once thought was ridiculous. I will visit the graves of my mom and my grandparents, and I will say thank you for teaching me to remember.
By honoring the past, by letting go of the things we cannot change, we can face the future with hope and courage—dream our own dreams while there is still time. We can do our best work, in memory of the past, because we were touched or devastated, because we choose to face the reality of our own end by placing a few flowers on a tombstone.
Love and memory live in every petal of every flower, in every flapping flag. If we can capture that universal moment and put a little bit of Decoration Day into our work, the urgency of life and the fragileness of it, then we have succeeded as writers…and as human beings.
Funny how middle-age changes things. Death is a certain reality. By the time you’re 50, it’s almost guaranteed you have lost someone you truly love, that you’ve been touched or devastated by a lingering or a sudden death. But…it’s easy to forget that Memorial Day is more than a long weekend meant for relaxing and cooking out. Or maybe not. Who wants to think about death? Who needs to remember the pain? Who needs to stare at the inevitable end of our own life?
As writers…we do. We must. Life is a fragile, precious commodity, and if we don’t feel that way, then how can our characters truly come alive? How can we write about death without facing it ourselves. Especially us mystery writers…but all writers must have a sense of urgency in their work, a foreboding future lurking around the next corner, blood throbbing in the veins. Our work has to have life in it.
My novels and short stories are littered with dead people. My memory as a human being is jam-packed with dead people. This weekend, I will honor them by planting flowers, by participating in a tradition I once thought was ridiculous. I will visit the graves of my mom and my grandparents, and I will say thank you for teaching me to remember.
By honoring the past, by letting go of the things we cannot change, we can face the future with hope and courage—dream our own dreams while there is still time. We can do our best work, in memory of the past, because we were touched or devastated, because we choose to face the reality of our own end by placing a few flowers on a tombstone.
Love and memory live in every petal of every flower, in every flapping flag. If we can capture that universal moment and put a little bit of Decoration Day into our work, the urgency of life and the fragileness of it, then we have succeeded as writers…and as human beings.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
The Solitary Life of a Writer...until publication by Margot Justes
I write because I love to see words create an image, capture the imagination. I have learned how to tell a story.
As writers we sit in our offices, or in tiny spaces reserved just for us. Solitude..we are in harmony with our environment. I won't even have a phone in my office.
We tell our stories, but all of us want to get published, to get validated. Think about what happens once you get that phone call.
It happened to me, Echelon Press said yes. Nirvana hit, I was going to be published. Did I think what was going to follow, absolutely not. My name was going to be in print. My books were going to be sold. But were they? Who is going to know about me, my name is not Nora Roberts or James Patterson (I guess that's good, the James part at least) I will not automatically be on the best seller list.
Karen Syed, my publisher said work on your name recognition, start now. Is she right, absolutely, she is the expert. Now comes the dilemma, the solitude evaporates, and we must suddenly throw ourselves into the public arena.
We must blog, write articles, create contests, make public appearances, attend conferences and promote our books. Does that make us better writers, maybe, does that get our name out there in cyberspace, nationally and locally, absolutely. Do we collectively grow stronger, more assured, I believe so.
We learn how to promote ourselves, because that is what we are selling. But the dichotomy continues, writing is a solitary endeaver, selling that writing most assuredly is not.
Till Saturday,
Margot Justes
www.mjustes.com
A Hotel in Paris
Echelon Press, June 2008
As writers we sit in our offices, or in tiny spaces reserved just for us. Solitude..we are in harmony with our environment. I won't even have a phone in my office.
We tell our stories, but all of us want to get published, to get validated. Think about what happens once you get that phone call.
It happened to me, Echelon Press said yes. Nirvana hit, I was going to be published. Did I think what was going to follow, absolutely not. My name was going to be in print. My books were going to be sold. But were they? Who is going to know about me, my name is not Nora Roberts or James Patterson (I guess that's good, the James part at least) I will not automatically be on the best seller list.
Karen Syed, my publisher said work on your name recognition, start now. Is she right, absolutely, she is the expert. Now comes the dilemma, the solitude evaporates, and we must suddenly throw ourselves into the public arena.
We must blog, write articles, create contests, make public appearances, attend conferences and promote our books. Does that make us better writers, maybe, does that get our name out there in cyberspace, nationally and locally, absolutely. Do we collectively grow stronger, more assured, I believe so.
We learn how to promote ourselves, because that is what we are selling. But the dichotomy continues, writing is a solitary endeaver, selling that writing most assuredly is not.
Till Saturday,
Margot Justes
www.mjustes.com
A Hotel in Paris
Echelon Press, June 2008
Friday, May 25, 2007
CRAFTING COMPELLING FEMALE LEADS via VOICE and CHOICE By Robert W. Walker
Part 2
The human brain sorts its mail via images, so it behooves us to use verbs that carry the weight and smell of an image (was standing is weak beside stood; was climbing weak beside climbed, was about to decide is weak beside decided). We call on simile and metaphor and extended metaphor, but the absolute is even more powerful than these. Absolute detail, as in a Name is a photo in the mind, as a Number is an instamatic shot for the mind. Metaphorical language then and Verb Choice then create style and voice; and if we choose verbs that fire off shots of photographic moments as in SLAMMED, divorced, cuddled, crammed, leapt, jarred, frightened over the weak helping verbs as in the door WAS slammed or about to be slammed, we don’t hear the firing off of the “slam” itself. Nothing really slamming there as it is going to slam or going to be about to slam (see what I mean about politician-speak?) My fellow Americans, the bomb was defused by the heroic soldier, or the door on the Humvee was about to be slammed, or on its way to being slammed…well…they were thinking about maybe getting a divorce, they had sorta been cuddling, was cramming, was about to leap, was feeling a bit frightened—THESE all REDUCE the photo or blur it considerably. We clip ourselves at the knees when we overuse ly-words and qualifiers in which sentence the strong verb is relegated to a murmur somewhere along the line of thought.
Most assuredly helping and passive voice verbs such as was\were SLOW the action and the firing of the photo in the brain of the reader if it gets there at all. Strong female VOICE carries the day in crime fiction with female leads who are SURE not unsure, and who do not qualify unless there is great good reason to do so. The ‘secret’ to creating strong voice, male or female is the same!
There is/was/has been no more insidious word in the English language to insinuate itself on sentences like a parasitic leech than the verb to be, and in particular the word WAS. Take a moment and picture for me a was in your head; next, define the word was in the manner you might define any action/active verb and you cannot. Picture was now in your mind and tell me what you ARE\WAS seeing? Do same for throw/threw/thrown or torch/torched. Jessica bolted from her seat RATHER THAN Jessica was about to maybe stand up as she was sipping her coffee. Meredyth torqued up her language whenever Lucas Stonecoat entered her office. The man engraged her. Enraged is the verb, not was enraged, or was growing angrier by the minute. These examples of action over passivity “fire off” mental imagery and are far more photographic and strong like bull…strong in Voice than is this: Meredyth was (in the process of) thinking about perhaps torquing up her language whenever she was confronted by Lucas’s presence in her office. Lucas, by the same token, was nervously thinking about maybe entering the room. If you wish to write Passively go write speeches for politicians and Supreme Court justices, and others who are trying to save their backsides from their tongues.
Robert W. Walker
www.myspace.com/robertwwalkerbooks
http://www.robertwwalkerbooks/
http://www.fictionwise.com/
The human brain sorts its mail via images, so it behooves us to use verbs that carry the weight and smell of an image (was standing is weak beside stood; was climbing weak beside climbed, was about to decide is weak beside decided). We call on simile and metaphor and extended metaphor, but the absolute is even more powerful than these. Absolute detail, as in a Name is a photo in the mind, as a Number is an instamatic shot for the mind. Metaphorical language then and Verb Choice then create style and voice; and if we choose verbs that fire off shots of photographic moments as in SLAMMED, divorced, cuddled, crammed, leapt, jarred, frightened over the weak helping verbs as in the door WAS slammed or about to be slammed, we don’t hear the firing off of the “slam” itself. Nothing really slamming there as it is going to slam or going to be about to slam (see what I mean about politician-speak?) My fellow Americans, the bomb was defused by the heroic soldier, or the door on the Humvee was about to be slammed, or on its way to being slammed…well…they were thinking about maybe getting a divorce, they had sorta been cuddling, was cramming, was about to leap, was feeling a bit frightened—THESE all REDUCE the photo or blur it considerably. We clip ourselves at the knees when we overuse ly-words and qualifiers in which sentence the strong verb is relegated to a murmur somewhere along the line of thought.
Most assuredly helping and passive voice verbs such as was\were SLOW the action and the firing of the photo in the brain of the reader if it gets there at all. Strong female VOICE carries the day in crime fiction with female leads who are SURE not unsure, and who do not qualify unless there is great good reason to do so. The ‘secret’ to creating strong voice, male or female is the same!
There is/was/has been no more insidious word in the English language to insinuate itself on sentences like a parasitic leech than the verb to be, and in particular the word WAS. Take a moment and picture for me a was in your head; next, define the word was in the manner you might define any action/active verb and you cannot. Picture was now in your mind and tell me what you ARE\WAS seeing? Do same for throw/threw/thrown or torch/torched. Jessica bolted from her seat RATHER THAN Jessica was about to maybe stand up as she was sipping her coffee. Meredyth torqued up her language whenever Lucas Stonecoat entered her office. The man engraged her. Enraged is the verb, not was enraged, or was growing angrier by the minute. These examples of action over passivity “fire off” mental imagery and are far more photographic and strong like bull…strong in Voice than is this: Meredyth was (in the process of) thinking about perhaps torquing up her language whenever she was confronted by Lucas’s presence in her office. Lucas, by the same token, was nervously thinking about maybe entering the room. If you wish to write Passively go write speeches for politicians and Supreme Court justices, and others who are trying to save their backsides from their tongues.
Robert W. Walker
www.myspace.com/robertwwalkerbooks
http://www.robertwwalkerbooks/
http://www.fictionwise.com/
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Some Dreams Really Do Come True
The pancakes were delicious this morning. We made extra because my daughter took a badly needed day off from her work as a high school guidance counselor and joined us for the day. She brought with her the floor plans to the remodeling project she and her husband are about to begin. This is no simple room addition, oh no, not my daughter. This is buying five acres of the Larson farm and farm house. This is a project of major proportions. The farm house is coming down and a new home will be built on top the existing foundation.
This is a dream I unintentionally handed down to my daughter. See, I lived in that very home for twenty-six years until my husband and I chose to walk across the road and build a new home. For twenty-six years I dreamed of pushing down walls, moving bathrooms and expanding bedrooms and playrooms. I wanted the yard, it's a beautiful yard with mature trees and flower beds my family and I put in. It's the yard my children played in. But I also wanted a new home. Walking away from that dream of making the Larson farm house into something to be proud of was difficult to do. Remodeling would not be practical too many contractors told us. It wouldn't be financially sound. The house was still in good livable condition. We should rent it out and build somewhere else. And so, eventually, we did just that.
I love my home. It's still on the Larson farm, it's something to be proud of for the next generation. But my daughter, she didn't let that dream go. She had the vision, the same vision I had for so many years. And she married a risk taker.
Isn't it funny how some dreams just won't die? They hang on, lurking in the back of our minds, like characters that have yet to make it to the printed page. But still they wait, knowing some day, some how they will come into existence. And so my long-ago dream of remaking the Larson farm house has bloomed again. Only it's not my dream anymore, I gave it away. But I was very careful who I handed that dream to. I gave it to the one person I knew who could protect it til that right time came to make it a reality.
The demolition will begin this summer. I'm excited and scared. Scared that this is costing a bundle of money and scared of what they might find ~ mold, rot and other icky things that will cost even more money to get rid of. But the excitement overrides all that. This is a dream coming to life. It feels a bit surreal, in a good way.
But mostly, I'm proud of the dreamer who wants to raise her children on the Larson farm, the farm where she grew up. The backyard where she used to play. And I'm thankful that sometimes, yes, sometimes dreams really do come true.
Til next time ~
Deb (DL Larson)
This is a dream I unintentionally handed down to my daughter. See, I lived in that very home for twenty-six years until my husband and I chose to walk across the road and build a new home. For twenty-six years I dreamed of pushing down walls, moving bathrooms and expanding bedrooms and playrooms. I wanted the yard, it's a beautiful yard with mature trees and flower beds my family and I put in. It's the yard my children played in. But I also wanted a new home. Walking away from that dream of making the Larson farm house into something to be proud of was difficult to do. Remodeling would not be practical too many contractors told us. It wouldn't be financially sound. The house was still in good livable condition. We should rent it out and build somewhere else. And so, eventually, we did just that.
I love my home. It's still on the Larson farm, it's something to be proud of for the next generation. But my daughter, she didn't let that dream go. She had the vision, the same vision I had for so many years. And she married a risk taker.
Isn't it funny how some dreams just won't die? They hang on, lurking in the back of our minds, like characters that have yet to make it to the printed page. But still they wait, knowing some day, some how they will come into existence. And so my long-ago dream of remaking the Larson farm house has bloomed again. Only it's not my dream anymore, I gave it away. But I was very careful who I handed that dream to. I gave it to the one person I knew who could protect it til that right time came to make it a reality.
The demolition will begin this summer. I'm excited and scared. Scared that this is costing a bundle of money and scared of what they might find ~ mold, rot and other icky things that will cost even more money to get rid of. But the excitement overrides all that. This is a dream coming to life. It feels a bit surreal, in a good way.
But mostly, I'm proud of the dreamer who wants to raise her children on the Larson farm, the farm where she grew up. The backyard where she used to play. And I'm thankful that sometimes, yes, sometimes dreams really do come true.
Til next time ~
Deb (DL Larson)
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